


Illuminated

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have an arrangement, which Aramis thought was mutually beneficial. At least, he'd thought so until one night he returns to find their bed empty and Porthos missing. Porthos is tired of being the afterthought and Aramis hadn't even realized something was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illuminated

When a man is in possession of a good arrangement, he tends not to shy away from its benefits and the wholly mutual satisfaction that comes of bedding beautiful women through the evenings and returning to a warmed bed filled with the finest example of a man Aramis has ever seen. True, Porthos has been vocal about Aramis’ choice of bed companions apart from him, but despite his constant grumblings, he’s always ready for Aramis when he returns.

And if the man was fine in the sun’s daylight, then he is breathtaking under cover of darkness. The moon makes quick work of illuminating his scars for Aramis to see, as if intending to steal his breath away by reminding Aramis of the times his fingers roamed over that warm skin, sewing him back together after each time a weapon split him apart.

Aramis keeps that fine visual at the forefront of his mind as he traipses home from the good Lady Mounet’s house, hair disheveled and clothes rumpled. 

The arrangement is thus:

Aramis is free to roam where he pleases. Porthos doesn’t hear about them apart from the broadest strokes on the canvas. When Aramis is through with them, he makes his way back to their shared bed in their lodgings and does his best to disrupt Porthos’ sleep. He’s tarried longer than intended with the good Lady, but she had been very eager to show him the finer tricks of her tongue.

“Porthos,” Aramis drawls lazily as he hangs his hat, stripping his belt off and leaving the rest for Porthos to do as he likes (and he does so like). “I am awash in finery and perfume. I look forward to your hands reminding me of the wonderful violence you inhabit when you manhandle my clothes off of me.”

He crawls to his knees, swaying as the wine in his system swirls and heats his cheeks and his belly, his cock half-erect as he thinks of Porthos’ hands gripping him and leaving little marks for no one to see. 

Aramis cracks one eye open when no one is touching him with brute force. “Porthos?”

The other eye is opened, long enough to find that their bed is empty. In fact, it looks as though no one has ever slept there. It’s far too late for Porthos to be gambling away a small fortune at the tavern and surely Treville wouldn’t summon them this early. They are in the fine middling hours of the night in which their time is theirs and theirs alone.

Something must have happened, then.

Aramis swiftly does up the buckle of his belt and charges forward, planting his hat upon his fraying curls, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he charges for Athos’ quarters immediately, pounding his fist upon the door. 

“Athos!” he demands, voice booming with no mind as to who he might awake. “Athos, wake up!” 

Aramis presses his ear to the thick oak door, listening to the drunken scrape-shuffle-scrape of Athos’ feet as he wanders to the door. Aramis steps back and stands attentively with his chin raised high as he waits for Athos to acclimate to the light and the activity. 

“Where is he?” Aramis demands.

The whites of Athos’ eyes are bloodshot red and he reeks of cheap wine. Aramis is no longer surprised by such things, but it makes it difficult to address the man without thinking he’s bound to be led astray by drunken answers. 

“Who?” Athos gets out. 

“Porthos,” Aramis growls, seeking past Athos as though his friend is hiding within. “When I returned, he wasn’t in his quarters. Something must have...”

“He’s bedding down at Madame Bonacieux’s home,” Athos interrupts, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose and pinching firmly. It is as though the headache of the morning has impressed upon his head now. “He said you might come charging through the garrison looking for him. He said,” Athos says evenly, removing his hand to take away all obstacles in their path, “that you are not to look for him and he will return in the morning.”

“Athos,” Aramis warns.

“I do not want to be in the middle of your spat,” Athos says, shaking his head. “For my sake, for my sleep’s sake, please wait for morning to find him.” 

Aramis gave the wall a hard shove, pushing himself away from Athos’ room with plans to head in the direction of Constance Bonacieux and her new boarder.

“Or don’t listen to me,” Athos sighed, just in Aramis’ hearing. “He’s not going to like it.”

“Good,” Aramis replies firmly, charging through the streets of Paris with all the measure and determination of a man on a quest. There are few others on the streets at this hour of the morning. They have turned to their beds with good sense, earning their rest as another dawn creeps nearer.

Aramis, too, would be in a similar situation if not for the fact that his constant bedmate has suddenly decided that he prefers to reside elsewhere. Suddenly, great warning flashes shoot through his mind. What if Porthos had taken insult in Aramis’ lateness? What if he had adjourned from the tavern to an empty bed and had decided to seek comfort elsewhere? The possibilities run rampant through Aramis’ mind until he settles on one devastating possibility. 

“D’Artagnan,” he growls, his step quicker as imaginations flash through his mind with a great lack of welcomeness. He thinks of Porthos great hands on D’Artagnan’s lean body instead of Aramis’ frame and it burns him with a jealousy that he did not think himself capable of.

By the time he arrives at the Bonacieux residence, he is alight with possibilities and afire with rage.

“Sir,” Constance greets him with confusion, looking as tired as Athos, but three times more patient. “I take it you’re here to visit my newest boarder?” 

“Where is he?” Aramis demands, dreading the potential response that might lead him towards the door of a new friend who seeks to steal what is dear and familiar from Aramis. “Where’s Porthos?”

“No need to shout,” Porthos replies, rubbing at his eyes as he lumbers into view. “Madame, my apologies for this brute,” he says. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Mind my furniture,” Constance says in parting, hiding her yawn as she ascends the stairs and leaves Porthos with Aramis.

Aramis takes the opportunity to survey Porthos’ body as if seeking out clues of an invasion. There are no new marks upon his dark skin. There are no love bites, no scratches afresh. Aramis takes his hat from off his head and places it on the table to give his hands something to do as he looks at Porthos’ lips to wonder at whether they have been swollen this night from kissing others. His clothes are rumpled. Is that from sleep or has something run their fingers through the fabric to cause such a disaster of them?

“You weren’t in your quarters,” Aramis finally summons the words to speak.

“I was,” Porthos replies. “I stayed there until the small hours of the morning and when it became clear you were so _occupied_ with the good Lady, I went for a walk and thought it best to stay out of your way.”

“Why?”

“So we didn’t have to have this conversation,” Porthos says, rolling his eyes. “I hate it when you fall asleep and lose your sense of time. You come back reeking of perfumes and sex, you never bathe until the morning after and I’m left to sleep in someone else’s leftovers,” he says with disgust. “Thought I’d come here, get a good night’s sleep.”

Aramis takes a moment to breathe, his heated response on the tip of his tongue. Still, he knows no progress will be made if he allows himself to lash out. 

“I didn’t realize you cared so deeply about my smell,” Aramis says, restrained and as calm as he can get. “You never seemed to have a problem before when you buried your lips in bringing me off.”

Porthos slams his fist down upon the china cabinet, making all the dishes rattle as he takes a step forward. For all that Aramis is steady and sure; the violence in such a brief and contained moment makes him consider whether coming here has truly been a misstep. He takes solace in the fact that Porthos is unarmed (apart from the massive force he carries in his body alone) and that Aramis has pistol and sword at his side.

“Stop,” Porthos warns.

“Why?” Aramis challenges again. “We have an agreement that suits us both and...”

“It doesn’t suit me,” Porthos cuts him off, averting his gaze. “It doesn’t suit me anymore,” he says calmly, repeating his words. “I’m not your reliable bedwarmer. I’m no dog,” he growls. “You can have all the ladies you like, Aramis, but not the same as it has been,” he says. “I’m sick of being the forgotten thought. You treat them better than you treat me and I don’t have to sit by and take it.”

Aramis tries to think of when he’s done such a thing. He could argue, but he’s sure that Porthos already has a long list of wrongs that Aramis has committed. 

“I didn’t realize I had been so disrespectful,” Aramis confesses, which is a truth in itself. After all, he still doesn’t know where he’s stepped wrong. He picks up his hat and turns, wandering into the small courtyard and finding himself stunned enough that he can’t take a step forward. 

He only realizes how long he’s been standing there when he feels the warmth of another body join him. 

“He’s upset,” Constance says quietly. “You have to give him time.”

“I must do no such thing,” Aramis counters. “I don’t understand what he’s upset about.”

“Don’t you?” Constance replies, scoffing. “You stormed all the way over here in the middle of the night because he chose to stay with us instead of with you lot. You don’t understand why he’s upset? I think you understand better than you realize.”

Aramis glances over his shoulder to the candlelight spilling out from the guest room. Porthos has yet to fall asleep, which means he’s lying awake wondering if he ought to come back. For all that Porthos can hold a grudge, he never seems to stay mad at Aramis for very long. In fact, his lingering here is a surprising thing in itself. 

“He’s not a forgotten afterthought,” Aramis says heatedly, knowing he cannot give away details lest he break a rule of their arrangement, but wanting the good advice of a mutual friend. “I don’t think of him last. He is always the first in my thoughts.”

Constance pulls the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Does he know that?”

Aramis watches the shadows and the light from the room, aware that Porthos most likely does not know. How could he? Aramis has tarried with the finest ladies of Paris for all hours of the night and is effusive in his praise of them, but hardly ever with Porthos because he had not thought his friend in need of such words.

Perhaps it’s not words that are lacking.

Perhaps it is trust, his company, and his time.

“You’d better come in,” Constance offers. “You’ll catch your death of cold out here.” 

Aramis, shocked that she had invited him back inside the house, followed as if a shadow upon her heels. He slipped his boots off at the door to give himself the advantage of silence as he crept towards the guest room and past D’Artagnan’s sleeping form (alone, without any marks upon him, which settles Aramis’ mind). He doesn’t knock when he enters the room, finding Porthos sitting on the bed and facing away from Aramis.

“If you honestly think you’re the last thought in my mind, then you’re an idiot,” Aramis informs Porthos with a curt shake of his head. “You know I enjoy the company of the beautiful women around us. You do, as well, but with far less frequency,” Aramis admits, knowing not to push too far. “However, if given the choice between the company of them or you, I choose you Porthos,” he says. “We have arranged to keep our lives bound, but with a long tether so that you can spend your nights drinking and gambling and should I choose, mine can be spent untangling petticoats,” he says with a mischievous smirk. 

Aramis watches Porthos grip the mattress tightly. “You weren’t there tonight,” he says heavily. “It’s the fourth night in a week you weren’t.”

“And you weren’t there when I returned from dinner. You were already drinking,” Aramis argues. “I was so looking forward to having you take me apart piece by piece,” he confesses. “The good Lady Mounet met with pleasure three times, but I only once early in the evening. I had thought to come back to you,” he says, rounding the bed to sink down on his knees between Porthos’ knees.

He trails his fingers along the inside of Porthos’ thigh, rubbing a slow circle as those fingers ascend higher. 

“The times I wake up in any bed but _our_ own are few and typically the exhaustion of a long day nipping at my heels,” he says. “You are not the bedwarmer, Porthos,” Aramis assures. “You are the steady north of my compass. You are the beacon alight in the dark. You are home.”

“And you are full of shit,” Porthos replies, but he’s smiling. It’s quite the accomplishment given the tension in Porthos’ shoulders.

Aramis rises to sit at Porthos’ back, kneading away that heavy stress with the mind to relax his friend and constant partner, knowing that he must take better steps if he wants to keep Porthos in his bed and in his life. Aramis leans in, chin hooked on Porthos’ shoulder as he tips his nose in against Porthos’ neck.

“I thought you might have debauched D’Artagnan tonight,” Aramis whispers teasingly. “You weren’t in Athos’ bed like you usually are when you get mad at me. Which is utterly unfair, as you very well know I like to watch,” he says, affronted as he slides his hands down Porthos’ torso, giving a sound of delight as Porthos allows him to wind his fingers lower into his underwear. “This is a change.”

“I wasn’t going to make it so easy for you to find me,” Porthos challenges, hips bucking up. “I was mad at you.”

“So you were,” Aramis agrees. “You’re something else now.”

Aramis takes great pleasure in bringing Porthos off not once, but twice with his hands and then with the talent of his tongue. He asks for nothing in return tonight. He will have his chance and then some in the coming days, but what he truly yearns for is what he gets when Porthos collapses heavily into Aramis’ arms.

It is the warmth and safety of knowing that the man wrapped around you will protect you no matter the foe. It is home, true and simple. 

“When I am worn in the morning, I will not be so slow to blame you,” Aramis warns sleepily, the light of sunrise playing on his closed eyelids as he tries to bury away the argument of the evening by pulling closer to Porthos. “Treville will be very displeased.”

“Your cock got you in trouble,” Porthos replies, running his fingers through Aramis’ hair slowly. “That, he’ll believe.”

Aramis laughs warmly and sluggishly, his exhaustion biting at his heels as he gives himself in to the haze of pleasant dreams ahead, knowing that they will be of one man and one man only (and always). He is lucky to know where he will wake up tomorrow and he will make it his task to always endeavour to wake up in his arms.

“You’re forgiven,” he hears Porthos whisper. “So go to sleep.”

“No argument here,” Aramis concurs.

And in his dreams, moonlight illuminates his lover’s body with grace and Aramis knows he could never truly choose any other above him.


End file.
